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‘Thanks for looking out for me, but I’m going to have a quiet one. I’ve spent this entire year either drinking or hungover and I want to start next year right.’
‘New year, new you, is it?’ Liv laughed.
‘That’s the one. Live, laugh, love and all that.’
‘No worries, you know where we are if you change your mind.’
I wouldn’t change my mind. New Year’s Eve was always a milestone moment, but this year it was more than that and tonight felt like an important hurdle in moving on from George. I hadn’t been alone for more than five minutes since I’d arrived in Verbier, and it was too easy to go from distraction to distraction. I needed a few hours to myself. I finished off the kitchen then went back to my room to write out a list of New Year’s resolutions:
Get a handsome new boyfriend to show George what a mistake he’s made.
Sell the house and get my money back.
Become an excellent chef.
Develop my wine nose and become a master vintner.
I opened a can of sparkling apple juice and poured it into two Champagne flutes. The sun was starting to set as I took them outside and propped them on the edge of the plunge pool. It looked like an idyllic jacuzzi, pre-bubble. No one needed to know it was only 7 degrees and I was… alone. I took a photo and opened Instagram, typing#DoubleBubble #ChampagneForTwo #TooBlessedToBeStressedbut as I looked at my picture-perfect post, I realised it was beautiful but fake. MaybeNew Year, New Memeant being more honest with the world… and myself. There was no shame in being out here on my own – I was living life’s big adventure, wasn’t I? The apple juice sparkled beautifully, lit by the orange glow of the sun, so I took another picture with just the one glass, as a gust of icy wind blew across the water. I ran inside and posted:
Starting the New Year right. #ChampagneHighLife #HotTub #AllTheBubbles
I didn’t need to pretend there were two of us sipping Champagne in a jacuzzi, toasting the New Year. I’d just pretend I was in there drinking Champagne on my own. Little steps.
I put my phone away and bolted the door. I had the whole place to myself and I was looking forward to a bit of me-time. Making a nice dinner and putting onJules Holland’s Hootenannyto see the New Year in. I walked through to the kitchen, taking a drink from each glass as I went.
‘Holly?’ I turned mid-slurp to find Luca stood on the stairs with his ski bag slung over his shoulder. ‘I didn’t think anyone was home tonight,’ he said.
‘Neither did I,’ I replied in panic. ‘I thought you’d gone back to Paris?’
‘I tried. The last ski-train was cancelled because of the snow and now I’m stuck here.’
‘Oh no! Although, there are worst places to be stuck, I suppose?’
‘I was meant to be having dinner at Madame Brasserie, in the Eiffel Tower, so I have somewhere much better to be,’ Luca said, looking irritated.
That shut me up. To think some people actually spent New Year’s Eve up the Eiffel Tower, rather than scrabbling last-minute plans together, or watching fireworks on the TV.
‘Drinking already?’ Luca asked, staring pointedly at my two flutes. ‘Is someone else here?’
‘Oh. Er, no, just me. They’re both for me.’
Luca frowned.
‘It’s not Champagne, it’s fizzy apple,’ I said, to explain myself.
Luca’s frown deepened. ‘We can do much better than that,’ he said, going back upstairs. My New Year party for one was now officially ruined, so I had to make the best of a bad situation.
‘I was planning to make Steak Diane if you’ll be here for dinner?’ I called after him.
‘Merci, I will. That sounds good.’
I wasn’t sure if that meant I’d have to wear my uniform and serve him in the dining room, or if we could keep it casual. I hoped for the latter, put my apron on and drank the rest of the Appletiser, taking two fillet steaks from the fridge and tenderising them with a small wooden hammer. I sliced two Spanish onions into perfect circles, followed by a punnet of button mushrooms, enjoying the rubbery squeak as the blade cut through. Dijon mustard, a splash of cognac, double cream and some Worcestershire sauce to spice it up. I washed, peeled and sliced a bag of potatoes into chips, then fried them to crispy, sizzling the onions and mushrooms in another pan and gradually adding the other ingredients for the sauce. Jules Holland provided the background music as I checked on the steaks, my mouth watering just looking at them. I was lost in thought preparing the food when Luca re-emerged half an hour later.
‘This might be nice to try?’ He stood in the kitchen doorway, holding up a dusty bottle of red. ‘It’s a Chimere Chateauneuf du Pape.’ He’d changed into jeans and a soft wool jumper, his hair still damp from the shower.
‘We can’t open that, can we?’ I said, looking at the bottle in awe. ‘I mean, obviously you can, but I won’t have any.’
‘Of course you will! We are seeing the New Year in together,’ he said, easing out the cork and pouring two glasses. I eyed mine cautiously – it was supposed to beNew Year, New Me, but I couldn’t say no to vintage red wine. I’d just have one glass. Or maybe I could drink until midnight then start theNew Meas the clock struck twelve.
